


Opia

by Acnara



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Possessive Behavior, Timeline What Timeline, Voldemort lived before Grindelwald, alternative universe - no second war with voldemort, i went to a museum some time ago and Renoir inspired me, this is not crack don´t let my poor attempt at a nice summary fool you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 14:41:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13789866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acnara/pseuds/Acnara
Summary: Harry Potter is finally 17. Free to leave the Dursleys behind and start a new life as an independent wizard (if staying at Ron´s until he gets that apartment in London can be called independence, anyway), he does what any young man in possession of a good fortune would: he third-wheels and goes to a museum.It´s not really a bad plan. The Malfoys had announced they had made a big donation to the newly opened "Myths and Prophecies: Lord Voldemort´s secret collection":The Boy With The Green Eyes collection. All of it.





	Opia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sonarous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonarous/gifts).



> And this is how I continue to write weird plots no one asked for. I had this is my drafts for way to long, and a friend wrote something really great that mixed light hearted scenes with really disturbing concepts and i was like hey. I need to clean the mess that is my .docs so why not start here, where it looks like cute but oops turns out shit is going down.  
> The parts that look/read nicely are all thanks to nezuomi btw. thanks for betaing, even tho this is not 100% betted bc i have no self control, beauty queen <3

**o*pi*a**

_ noun _

 -the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye.

 

 

Of course Hermione had gotten them tickets for the exposition. There was no way she would let a one-time opportunity like this pass by. Ron had assured him this would be the last time he asked Harry to go with them to a museum as a third wheel. 

‘Only this time, please, mate. I swear I won’t bother you again for five… no six! Six weeks!’ Those had been Ron’s exact words. And Harry, loving friend he was, had let himself be persuaded into accompanying his best friends on their cultural date.

Still, he wasn't exactly burning up in anticipation. This was not how he had wanted to spend his first weekend as a magical legal adult, at all.

Harry had turned 17 almost six days ago. Which meant not even Dumbledore could force him to remain anywhere near the Dursleys anymore. He could still remember the faces of his aunt and uncle as the three of them waited for the day to end, watching a movie while he stood on the front door. Dudley had been nowhere to be seen, but Harry had not expected nor wanted him around anyway.

They had said their own version of goodbye -and never come back- and left to their room somewhere before midnight. 

Harry had exited his home for sixteen years just as he had lived them: an unwanted ghost.

“I can’t believe we have tickets, guys. Do you realize how lucky we are?”

Harry saw Ron’s lips stretching into a very fake smile. The boy was trying so hard to look excited that it was hilarious. No one could say he didn’t try to make Hermione happy.

Harry himself was not really feeling his legs anymore after having been waiting in line for more than an hour and a half to get tickets for the exposition Hermione wanted to see. Well, to be fair, it was an exposition the whole magical world wanted to see.

Lord Voldemort’s private collection.

If Hermione’s enthusiasm had been any bigger, Harry suspected she would have camped in front of the museum’s door from the very day the exposition had been announced.

“I can’t believe we will get to see not just the usual collection, but the Malfoy’s. Rumor has it they have the whole boy collection! I can't believe this is happening! And on the opening day.”

Her enthusiasm was cute, Harry had to give her that much. Judging by the way Ron’s face had melted into full adoration, Harry was sure he was not the only one who found an excited Hermione Granger cute. 

Still, if they were not about to be dragged into an at least hour long exposition he would have appreciated her cuteness more.

“Don’t you think it is a bit creepy?” He asked Ron. Hermione was already sprinting towards the exposition doors, leaving them behind. Ron had joked about how the Malfoys had probably demanded for their house signature to be stamped upon every surface of the museum, as without them and their donations, the exposition would have never been possible.

Lord Voldemort’s most cherished art pieces. Everyone knew that story. Even Harry, who had never really paid attention to art in general, knew the exposition was a big deal.    
Lord Voldemort had been a Dark Lord. No, scratch that, he had been  _ The _ Dark Lord. Some people liked to argue that Grindelwald had claimed the spot as the darkest lord of the century, especially the Americans after the events in New York, but Europe knew better.

Lord Voldemort had lived before Grindelwald, and the german wizard was nothing compared to the terror Lord Voldemort had spread across the continent. People had feared the mere mention of his name. 

“Creepy?” Ron snorted next to him “You think paying to see the art a mass murderer and psychopath considered good enough to hang on their place’s walls is creepy? Because you are absolutely right.”

His friend started to walk towards the crowd of people gathered in front of the exposition doors anyway. 

Harry sighed.

“Why am I doing this again?"

“Because you love me, mate. And I’m also paying you with some homemade treacle tarts.”

He should be checking some apartments near wizard London right now. Try and find an actual home for himself, and let Ron get back his room in the Burrow. 

“They’d better be made by your mum and not you, Ronald, I don’t want to die yet.”

“Wouldn’t dare to offer otherwise.”

Harry could´t help but smile.

The main exposition rooms were surprisingly open and filled with light. Hermione was talking to a tall man Harry supposed was their guide. He had the exact same eye-to-eye grin that could be spotted on Hermione’s face. When the groupal tour started, he couldn’t stop repeating how grateful the museum was for the Malfoys lending them the pieces.

“… the artist captured perfectly the flows on the robes, a technique almost lost now a days! We are to thank to the noble house of Malfoy for lord and lady Malfoy’s efforts to hunt down and save all these unique pieces and letting the MBM expose them and-”

It looked like the tour guide and Hermione would be bonding over Malfoy gratitude.

“Unbelievable. Malfoy is a complete prat, and I’m sure his parents are too.” Ron and him stood at the back of the group. Harry had his hands in his pockets and Ron had his arms firmly crossed over his chest. “It takes more than one generation to reach that level of obnoxiousness.”

Harry nodded half heartedly. He had never met Draco Malfoy’s parents so he couldn't really tell. Although Draco had tried to approach him on his first day at Hogwarts, they had never been friends. The Malfoy lord probably thought a half-blood orphan was valuable enough to know more about, but not valuable enough to actually make his heir pursuit a friendship.

The first time Draco called Harry a mudblood, (born from a mudblood, raised by mudbloods, befriending mudbloods… is there really any magical blood left in you, Potter?) after learning about the Dursleys on their first year, Harry panicked, and hated him. But they were seventeen already, and while Harry still thought Malfoy a prat, he wouldn’t extend that to the rest of the family.

“They seem nice enough to let the museum keep all the profit they make with the tickets, though.” He pointed out “Maybe they genuinely like art.”

“As if they need the money-“ the guide shot Ron an icy glare, and Ron’s ears turned red. “As if they need the money,” he repeated quietly when the guide stopped glaring and went back to explaining the backstory of the actually very nice painting of a couple of girls in a summer garden.

“This was part of the Dark Lord’s collection of Renoirs” the guide explained. Harry wondered if he would have to go to the front of the group and remind to Hermione to breath from time to time. “He had quite a taste for his paintings, it seems. But do not think Renoir is the only muggle artist within these corridors, he shares the honor with a couple more recognized muggle artists, although we would call this taste a post Boy line. Only after the first boy the Dark Lord starts to acquire unmoving pictures.”

“Maybe they want to prove to your dad and his department that they are not really anti muggle.” Harry whispered back to Ron.

“Right, I’m sure they collected all these pieces so they could look good in front of my dad.” The bitterness of the statement did not escape Harry’s notice. “Maybe they just donated them because they are Death Eaters and owned them already.”

Harry tensed beside his friend. That was a bold accusation. The Death Eaters were a not so secret terrorist organization that was rumored to be the remains of Grindelwald’s followers. It was well known lots of his commanders had fled the country after Dumbledore defeated his lord on what history called ‘the greatest wizarding battle of the century’, in 1981.

The rumors said those still loyal to Grindelwald’s cause were hidden in Europe, waiting to free their lord from Numbergard and fight again.

Some rumors also said they were responsible for the attack on the mixed village of Godric’s Hollow, where Harry’s parents had died.

“I don’t think you should be-“ Harry tried to say, but Ron had already seen the expression on his face and had turned white with guilt.

“Merlin, Harry, I’m sorry.” He said “You know I don’t… But doesn’t it look weird to you? They just happened to have all this lying around. Everyone knows the Malfoy family was involved with You-Know-Who, so why not another dark lord?”

“And they just what?” Harry could feel his tongue heavy in his mouth. “Decided to share their old Lord's garbage to please their new,  _ incarcerated  _ master of evil ?

The voice of their guide interrupted them.

“And this fine piece is one -if not the only one- Salem Trials painting attributed to Xionawg, the famous korean painter whose paintings adorned the tapestries of Mahoutocoro.”   
There were some ohs and the group moved once again, entering another room also filled with paintings.

It helped Harry lift the dark weight he still got in his chest when he thought about his parents. Thinking about them always ended up on thinking about the Dursleys, and that was not something he was willing to do. Especially not now that he was finally free.

He thought about them an awful lot as it was. 

“I don’t know Ron” Harry muttered, trying to break the tension on his friend’s shoulders “But I don’t think Malfoy could ever be a bloodthirsty murderer. Have you seen his hair?”

Ron snorted loudly and that granted him another glare from the guide.

“No dad, I can’t go out like this. I can’t find my gel!” Harry whispered in a high pitched voice, hiding a loud laugh of his own,  only to make his friend laugh again. This time the glare was all for him.

Hermione materialized out of nowhere and grabbed both their hands.

“Any reason you are not appreciating the art you are being exposed to?” her tone was deadly and she still managed to send an apologetic look to the guide. 

“Just Malfoy talk” Ron smiled at her “You just missed Harry’s beautiful acting skills.”

“Really tragic.” She answered icely.

“Attention please!” Hermione turned at the guide’s words and her eyes brightened “We are about to enter the most important part of the tour. Behind these doors we have what is called… the jewel of the collection!”

The group laughed.

“Yes, the jewel indeed!” The guide grinned like crazy while he opened the doors “No photos allowed, I’m afraid, but believe me, you won’t even notice you can’t take any!”

He moved aside, and Harry caught how Hermione tangled his fingers with Ron’s before she dragged them into the room. He smiled to himself.

The room was nothing like the previous gallery they had seen. That gallery had been white and impersonal, the pictures in old, gold-ish frames. Here, the walls were covered in green velvet. The frames of the pictures were black and shone as if they had dark oil dripping from them.

And then there were the pictures.

The room was covered with paintings. Two, three rows of frames covered the whole room, the rich green of the velvet barely visible aside from the espace at the other end of the room. 

Another door.

“Welcome,” the guide was ecstatic. His voice trembled, and if Harry didn’t know their group had been the fifth to see the exposition today, he would have sworn the guide had never seen the room before. “Welcome to The Boy With the Green Eyes collection.”

Silence. Sudden and utter silence. Harry could almost hear all heart beats slowing down, trying to reach a rhythm with one another.

The lights were down, and from inside the paintings Harry could just half see pairs of green eyes staring down at the crowd.

“The Boy With the Green Eyes” started the guide. His voice was low, like he knew he was about to give away wanted information. After all, the story was Britain's most famous gossip. 

“The Darkest Lord of all times is said to got hold of a prophecy long ago…

…about the boy that would be his downfall.

Rumors in dark alleys assured that a Seer came to You-Know-Who, crawling to his feet and  begging for her life, wanting to pay for safety with a prophecy… He looked into her mind and found her gifts truthful… there was a boy.

A boy, she told him, a boy with the power to match his. A boy to end his regime. A boy to bring peace to the land that bathed their newborns in the blood of their dead ones.

A boy to vanish him, she said.

And, so he could recognize the boy before it was too late, the Dark Lord made his favorite painter sit down with the Seer that told him the prophecy, and made the artist paint a portrait of the boy.

The Dark Lord was sure of his luck now, for how could he not recognize the boy if his face hung on his walls? But when he went to retrieve the portrait, he was told the picture wouldn’t move. The artist, knowing the painting looked like a common muggle piece, tried to come up with an explanation to his master. “Maybe he hasn’t been born yet, my lord” he told him, “maybe that’s why the magic in the portrait can’t find him.”

And the Dark Lord believed the seer and the painter, and he hung the unmoving portrait on his wall, and waited. 

Eventually, he thought that maybe he wouldn’t be able to recognize the boy from just that painting. He was not satisfied with one portrait, so he made the artist paint another, the seer as his guide.

And, eventually, the wizard asked for another.

And another.

Some say he went crazy from the stares of the boy’s eyes. Some said he was already mad, and just focused his madness on the boy. Some said he just found the rumors about his mental health amusing and wanted to fuel them for personal advantage.

Some said he fell in love.

And painting after painting, painter after painter, the Boy With the Green Eyes collection was created.

The legend says The Dark Lord got obsessed with him, unable to find him but unwilling to stop looking… And so the Dark Lord distanced himself from reality, and he made a mistake.   
The aurors never revealed exactly what happened, but they discovered his hideout and after a bloody battle, they forced the Dark Lord and those loyal to him left alive in the house to disappear. 

It is said that a group of aurors followed the Lord into the room that held his paintings.  One of them threw a spell, destroying one of portraits. It is said that the Dark Lord hollowed like a wounded wolf and the man who had been vicious, salvage, lethal, lowered his wards long enough for one of the aurors to hit him with a fatal spell…

It is said that his followers held onto him and disapparated, never to be heard of again…”

And just like that, the guide clapped his hands loudly, snapping everyone out of the trance the story had put them in. Suddenly the lights increased in intensity and Harry realized he had been holding his breath. 

“Of course this is just one of those not so historic stories.” The guide laughed “We now know neither seers nor paintings work like that. If the prophecy ever really existed, it was a self fulfilled prophecy, the paintings being The Dark Lord’s downfall. Of course the boy doesn't really exist: most specialists agree he is just a product of the lord’s fear of being destroyed one day.”

The guide moved around the room, and pointed at some of the paintings, everyone’s eyes fixated on him. Harry followed his hand and he saw a painting of a pair of hands resting on an arm of a dark armchair. The painting was delicate and somehow intimate, the wrists of the model facing the crowd watching.

“Some psychologist think the boy is the Dark Lord himself when he was younger, or rather who he used to be before becoming a Dark Lord. The ever popular tale of being one's worst enemy. Other experts think the boy is someone the Dark Lord fell in love with in his youth, maybe during his time at school, but died early in life. No prophecy involved. That could be a possibility, but one difficult to prove since no one knows anything about You-Know-Who’s past. It is said he was a parseltongue, but there is no confirmation he ever went to Hogwarts in the first place.”

Hermione’s hand was raised.

“What about that theory that explores the boy was his first kill? Or his son? Or a muggle?”

The guide smiled at her almost fondly, but Harry’s eyes were already sliding to the next painting. This time there was some hair and the curve of a neck. Harry frowned slightly.

“Well yes! Since the collection was first talked about years ago lots of theories had surfaced. You know how this works, everyone likes a little mystery to go along with their private collections. There is no official story, so feel free to believe the one that makes sense to you!”

Some more questions. Some more answers.   
Harry’s eyes were in the next painting already.

Objectively, it was a nice set of pictures. The color scheme was simple and while it was obvious that lots of different painters had created portraits of the boy, the styles were similar enough to make the overall look intentional. Dark colors and little splashes of color in green or red. Still, it didn't make it any less creepy. The fact that the boy's face was never completely visible was definitely not helping. Neither were the many paintings of the boy's back, for some reason always at least slightly bruised.

“As you can see, the main theme of the paintings is the prophecy boy, also known as the Savior or the Chosen One, for obvious reasons.”

If the portraits were meant to help the Dark Lord find the kid, Harry didn’t thought they were very useful. Most of them didn't show the Chosen One’s face at all, and the ones that partially did had it surrounded by smoke or had his features blending with the background on the edges. 

Forget the childhood drama or the creepy obsession, Harry could definitely see why the Dark Lord had started to collect the portraits: they didn't look useful at all. How was the man supposed to identificate the so called enemy if his face was only half painted?

Still, something in the way the pictures  _ looked _ made him feel unsettled. One of the paintings was a close up of the boy's profile, one emerald eye shining bright against the black background. The imaged felt ethereal, his face distorted just so, and Harry couldn’t help but notice;

“Hey Ron, don't you think-?”

“With time we can see that is not only the face that was painted, but also close ups of his upper body. Here, see? A bruised shoulder and back. There has been a lot of speculation surrounding why the Dark Lord would-”

The jaw, the curve of the shoulder…

“Uhm?” Ron asked, following his friend’s gaze.

“But, before I let you explore the rooms freely, I would like to show you the next room. It is a direct recreation of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s study, exactly as described by the aurors’ reports back in the day of his downfall.”

The guide had a knowing smile on his face as he opened the door at the back of the room. Hermione’s hair stood up in the crowd of people and Harry followed her, a strange tightness on his chest. Ron muttered something behind him, his eyes still on the picture of the Boy’s profile.

The next room, much like the first, was filled with pictures. Somehow the fact that this room had actual furniture in it made everything even creepier, more real.

The Darkest Lord of all times had walked around a room just like this one,  _ if not this very same one _ , and had stared at those portraits just like Harry was doing. 

Then Harry saw it. 

He didn’t need the guide’s presentation to know what the main piece of the collection was. He was sure no one needed it.  For right on top of the most imposing fireplace Harry had ever ever seen -and he had seen the Hogwarts’ headmaster’s one,- hanged the biggest portrait in the collection.

The background was black. Just a shade darker than the messy hair of the boy himself. This frame was not black like the others, though. This frame looked like it was made of gold. And so did the skin of the man portrayed inside it.

He was not a actually boy, that much was clear. Only visible from the lower waist up, the man was half turned as if had been caught doing something and was turning around to face the people outside the painting. For the first time, his face was completely visible for the audience. His expression was serious, almost judging. And every inch of visible skin was covered in gold.

Well, not every inch. Right around his neck there was a handprint in a very telling red. Blood. The mark of bloody hand around his neck.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” announced the guide “The Golden Boy”

Harry was making eye contact with the picture. Or as much eye contact as he could, anyway. The more he looked at it, the more obvious it became, and he found himself blinking in disbelief.

His hand raised to his neck on its own accord and Harry tried to brush away the blood he had  _ felt _ on there.

He was making eye contact with himself 

Beside him, he heard Ron gasp.

“Bloody hell. Harry…”

“So you have noticed it, too? Isn't it fascinating?” Hermione’s voice startle both of them, and Harry pretty much jumped out of his skin. 

“Merlin, don't do that  _ ever _ again.” Ron was clutching his chest right beside him, pale like a ghost.

“Hermione,” Harry's breath came rushed, his heart beating like a wild animal. It was probably because of the small jumpscare, but his hand was still resting on his neck. The pulse under his fingertips was not slowing down.

“He looks…” Ron took another quick look at the portrait, as if checking it still existed “He is…”

“Me.” he hadn’t meant to say it in the matter-of-fact way he did but, well. There was no other way of saying it. His face was slightly distorted and the artist had taken a bit of an artistic liberty when he painted his eyes in such a vibrant green -and he was weirdly pale, too. Also those abs were definitely  _ not _ part of his body.

It wasn't exactly difficult to notice the resemblance, but maybe that was just because he looked at himself in the mirror every day. He hadn't recognised himself before  in the portraits, but something about this one…

Under all the paint and artistic lightning, Harry could see his face. He had never looked as arrogant as the man in the painting did, or at least he hoped so, but still.

“Maybe we should leave.”

“Don't be ridiculous Ron. It is a bit strange, I will give you that, but let's reason this. These paintings are more than 100 years old, there is no way that's you, Harry. Believe me, I've read  _ a lot _ about the Boy exposition and I'm very sure this is a muggle boy. Nothing  _ prophetic  _ about him, i can assure you.”

Hermione laughed, her disdain for prophecies palpable in her words and Harry felt obliged to breathed in, crack a smile.

“Yeah, you are right.” Ron shoot him a weird look, but said nothing. He only shift closer to them, as if hiding Harry from the view.

He was about to make some comment to ease the tension -Ron's mostly, but also his own, when a small movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. A red light winked at him.

He hadn't known that the Malfoys had allowed the museum to install magically modified muggle security cameras on their private collection .

 

-0-

 

The room was dark, only partially illuminated by the candles resting on the wide dining room table. Some of his most daring followers had suggested and even volunteered to install more…  _ modern _ spells on his home, but Lord Voldemort was fond of traditions.

Enchanted candelabra for light, magic from warmth. The world preferred to waste magic on everything, these days.

A loud cracked noise and a knock on the dining room’s door informed him that he had a visit.

“Lady Shafiq is on the waiting room, Master.” came the squeaky voice of the head of his house elfs from outside the door. 

He didn’t grant him entrance, nor did he move from the saten sofa he was sitting in or turn his eyes from his book, but a distraught wave of his fingers removed the guards around the room. The house elf  would understand.

He breathed, and raised his eyes from the book. Dozens of bright green eyes greeted him.

How he adored his portraits.

How he adored the last one, specially.

To any wizard, the erratic movement of the picture would have meant its disposal, but Lord Voldemort cherished its existence above any other painting he had ever owned.  _ For this one moved.  _

This one showed that whatever spell that had hidden the boy from him was now broken. The magic could reach him. Not completely, obviously, since functioning portraits needed the memories of the person portrayed to work, but he was out there. He was  _ finally  _ out there.

The painting had moved and Lord Voldemort had allowed his followers to search at last.

Abraxas’ son had been static when he received the news. He had promised to find the boy, if his master would just let the world see his face. See if someone recognized him. Asked to let him handle this, for him.

It hadn't been easy, to let such a big part of his collection go to Britain again. But it had been a worthy loose. Malfoy had sent an owl not even six hours ago, with a single picture.

A picture that now lied on his dining table. He restrained himself from walking towards it and looking at him again.  _ Breathing, talking _ . It felt foreign to the Dark Lord, to see him move. To see him grown up.

He had always thought he would find the boy as soon as he was born. That he would own him as soon as he took his first breath on this rotten world. He had made his people look all around the world. He had build an empire in the shadows of lesser men, a gaping hole to swallow the boy whole and steal him from the world before even his surely worthless parents could taint him with their gaze. He had kept the world busy with Grindelwald, helping him when needed and keeping his spirit alive after he had been defeated when he refused his help. 

_ And look at him now, he even had a name… His untitled mystery even had a name... _

He had made sure the world thought the Dark Lord had died, and the world, foolish as it was, had believed him. He had turned himself into a legend, a fading scary bedtime story for children. A boggyman the world couldn’t forget but did not truly believe in anymore.

_ The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist,  _ is what the noons at the orphanage used to say.

And still.  _ Still. _

_ What fool had dared to hide him? _

But it didn't matter anymore. Now he had found him, and there was no mistake. His followers had been quietly celebrating for days now.

No more of this Grindelwald facade. His Knights could once again stand true, proud, his master’s mark shining crimson on their arms. 

The sound of his Death Eater’s high heels filled the room and with a last glance at the smirking boy in the erratic portrait, he stood.

No more quietly celebrating.

 

  
England awaited him.   


**Author's Note:**

> Ok so for everyone who has left kudos/bookmarked/commented THANK YOU SO MUCH and yes, if you have a look at the comments 89% are asking for the continuation and i agree with you guys. But it I will not have time to start posting until college is done so if anyone is wondering wtf girl what is you doing uhm... Yeah. This is gonna be a summer thing! Thanks again, I can´t believe y´all also like this messy AU... we are gonna have some fun-


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